


Halfway To Drunk

by Measured



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Gen, Inappropriate Humor, Past mentioned Soldier/Demoman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6771991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scout was the epitome of a drunken fool, and he never even took a drop of liquor to reach that state.</p><p>Or, Scout and Demoman become friends almost by accident, and get into tons of trouble along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halfway To Drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scrunchles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/gifts).



> I started this treat for Scrunchles in TF2 Secret Santa 2015, and it kind of got away from me. They asked for gen (and Demo/Scout interaction between gen and romantic)
> 
> According to some translations, the "rainbows make me cry" line was changed to Scout crying over Bambi in other translations. This is pre-Expiration Date and Mann Vs Machine timeline, so Scout is full on fuckboy here.
> 
> There's also a minor Fire Emblem reference. Props on to whoever catches it.

Teufort had only one bar left. It was a falling down building, practically a shanty filled with sand, dirty wood, and drunks. There'd been twenty at one point, but they'd all had things happen, be they accidental explosions, accidental deaths of their owners due to lack of patriotism and neck snapping, or simply been bought out by the Voice herself. Who knew what she'd want with mangy little unloved bar, with watery drinks trying to pass themselves off as alcohol. When it came to her, it was better not to ask.

He'd brought his own flask, but it got tiring drinking alone. Bars and the mercenary compound gave him so much people watching to do, and nothing was a more entertaining show than watching people fuck things up. And nobody fucked things up like a bunch of drunken men.

The people that passed (and staggered) behind him were shown in a fractured sides in the cracked mirror behind the bar. Presumably, the mirror was to prevent some form of theft, though it barely worked in its current state. He'd warned the owner about things like bad luck, and the ghost trapped inside between the panes of glass that was now free and causing daily trouble in their back pantry.  
Of course, no one trusted a man telling the truth in a bar. This was a place for fools and dreamers, men and women held together with shoestring plans and hopes.

"Hey, Demo!" He saw Scout through the mirror, a dark, distorted reflection.

He turned, and raised his hand, a half-hearted greeting. He'd never seen a boy with as much swagger as Scout. He didn't even have to have any drink in him; Scout was perpetually full of Dutch Courage, and the willingness to jump into any fight, logic and reasoning be damned. Scout was the epitome of a drunken fool, and he never even took a drop of liquor to reach that state.

It didn't matter if the man was ten times the size, Scout would challenge him to wrestle, or find some way to get into a fight, be it bragging, flirting around with the wrong girls, or simply annoying everyone around him until someone threw a punch.

Sometimes, the lad even won. And when that happened, they'd hear about it for days. Then again, with a braggart like him, Scout would make even the losses seem like great victories. He could spin anything with that silver tongue of his. Any bar or cafe would become his stage as he went on and on, like he was auditioning for he part of Bottom in A Midsummer's Night Dream.

Scout took a seat at the bar next to him. 

"So, see you're drinkin', that's nice, that's nice. You know, I sure can drink. I outdrank all my brothers, and everybody else in Southie. In fact, if you ask them, they'll all say I suck at drinkin', because they're too scared to admit it. In fact, I bet I'm the best anywhere, ever."

"Aye, is that so? Boyo, ye are playin' with plastic swords and cardboard beards. I've fought _dragons_ and tangled with the green fairy herself. I've taken a battle with absinthe and come out alive."

"Oh really now? Because, I hear way too much talkin', and not a lot of drinkin'. You afraid to take me on?" Scout said.

"Too much talk, ye say? Must've been listenin' to yaeself, then," Demoman said.

He smirked, and undid the cap of his scrumpy. He made a big show of seeming to guzzle down his drink, but took just a mouthful, to keep his lips wet. The rest he let fall back into the bottle. The glass was too dark to see just how much was left. Especially not here, a thief's paradise of murky light and half-drunken dreams.

"Ahh, that hits the spot. Go on, laddie boy. Show me what ye are made of. If ye _dare_."

Demoman lifted up his arm to call for the bartender. A large bill passed hands, and there were eight tall longneck bottles placed on the bar in front of them. 

Scout was always a blank slate. Usually he kept up a good mask of bluster and challenging anyone who ever saw those cracks of fear and cowardice. Demoman had to respect that; he'd done the same, smirking to cover up being on the edge of death. They all did; Scout was just a little more open, a little worse at lying than the rest of them.

 _"Eight?"_ Scout said. His pride turned to momentary dismay, before he caught himself and covered it up with a smirk. 

"And that's only the first round. What, ye afraid, laddie boy? Ye can go home and find some sippy cups if that's better..."

"Hell no! I-I was just thinkin' that there's not nearly _enough_ ," Scout worked on his first beer with such determination. He broke out coughing, and clung to the side of the bar.

"Already? And here I thought ye were goin' to take my crown," Demoman said.

Scout wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his bandaged hand. "Don't count me out yet. I'm just gettin' started. Warm ups, that's all this is. _Warm ups_."

Scout downed the next far too fast to show off. At this rate, he wouldn't even last through the second round. Demoman took another long fake sip, taking care to only whet his mouth. He raised his hand for another round. Scout looked about to fall off at the ten more bottles which piled up. For a moment his face was blank, even horrified. He drew back away from the alcohol, a noise like a sob in the back of his throat before he caught himself and started smirking again. But this mask was too much, almost comical. 

But as usual, when his pride got him into trouble, Scout just kept on pretending like he was as good as he claimed. Knowing him, he'd try and pass the resulting disaster off as a giant victory for himself.

Lies were best when subtle, but Scout could never seem to get that. With him it was all grandiose stories, so outlandish, entertaining, like he'd retold some legend to fit his own needs.

Demoman looked to his bottle. Just because he understood how Scout ticked didn't mean he'd go easy on him. Challenge a dragon, and you'd come out with a burns, if you even came out alive. He'd had to learn that as a boy, and Scout too would have to learn. Apparently getting his entire rib cage broken last time he'd tried to box with Heavy and getting his legs blown off trying to rocket jump better than Soldier wasn't enough of a lesson.

"All right. See, ye ain't even finished one. I―I'll finish them all―all eight before you even got one done."

Demoman chuckled. "It's time, not amount, boyo."

"Don't matter, I got the best times of everyone! The Olympics _wish_ they could have someone as great as me! But they won't, because I'm too popular, and they can't take that many riots of girls losin' their head over me. Like a Beatles concert, but even _more_ cheerin'!"

There was no fighting Scout's tall tales, though some of the other men sure tried. Demoman simply nodded. An ego that fragile combined with so much imagination was like his chemicals: likely to blow at any moment, but such fun to watch unfold.

Demoman set down his bottle, and pretended to guzzle two in succession. "Ye better catch up, I'm already leavin' ye behind in the dust."

"You wish! I'm―I got this-" Scout's head was dipping, but he kept sipping at his second bottle. He cringed with every drink, whimpering as the liquid dripped from his mouth.

"You ain't even winded. How the hell is that possible?"

Demoman had to raise a glass for his determination, at least.

"I'm a professional, lad. I warned ye."

"W-whatever, I'll drink even more. I'll drink all of you under the table! All of you, even the bartender. Then--then you'll all see my name on TV, and in Guinness World Book of records. Though I'm already in there for bein' too handsome, and too fast. Oh, and charmin'."

Scout motioned for another beer, and barely kept back the tears as he again drank it too fast. Demoman bit into a salty, and slightly stale pretzel as he waited for another pathetic attempt. Scout was making all the wrong choices, showing just what a greenhorn he was. Really, he came out like some desperate virgin who had never even stolen a drink at a high school party, let alone won a drinking contest.

As expected, Scout couldn't wait. Demoman could only guess that with how fast Scout was falling, he'd come out on an empty stomach. Or perhaps he really was that poor a drinker. It wouldn't be surprising, given the flimsy size of him. A little toy boy, all mouth and ego.

Scout shuddered as he wiped the spilled drink up with his shirt. He fell face-first to the bar, hard enough to leave a mark.

"Just give it up, lad," Demoman said softly.

Scout lifted his head. His nose was bleeding down his face, but he was too shitfaced drunk to even brush the blood away. He leaned forward, trembling, and on the verge of collapse again.

"Bambi didn't deserve it. His m-mother...." Scout broke out in a sob, and clutched the bottle closer to him.

It could've been good blackmail material, but he stood by the code of honor to never expose the drunken antics of his comrades. Well, at least, not unless they'd taken pictures of him passed out in the yard, his kilt revealing his bare ass to anyone who passed by. And then even put some on billboards, in a true feat of invention. His ass was mighty popular with Teufort for the half day before that billboard got taken down.

Though he'd grown pretty popular with the ladies, and some men of Teufort after that, so he couldn't complain too much. Whoever had passed those pictures around had even sent them across the world. He still got fan letters from a couple girls from Russia.

"Come now, lad. Yae are about to black out. The hangover that's comin' is goin' to make ye wish that ye were dead."

"I...I can take another," Scout said. His hand shook slightly as he tried to guide the bottle towards his lips. He ended up spilling most of it across his chest. He laughed at that, the childlike humor of being almost blackout drunk. Demoman laughed along, even if he wasn't quite at that level yet. It was like a return to simpler times, before he lost his eye, his family. He didn't drink to forget; he drank to remember something good in life.

Scout tried to lift his hand again, but only managed to spill the bottle across the bar. He had a red welt on his forehead from where he'd landed, and reeked like a refinery, though Demoman had to give him props for his determination.

"Y-you've been drinkin' this long and you're still---"

"With a liver like mine, ten drinks is nothin'. I could drink that entire keg over there, and still be just as sober. Just give up, lad. Maybe ye are somethin' in that little Boston land, but yae are no match for a man like me."

"I...can....I can do it!" Scout tried to lift the empty bottle to his lips, but he couldn't manage even that. He crumpled to the bar. The bottle rolled and fell to the floor, but didn't break.

Demoman finally took a real drink of his scrumpy. The taste of victory had never been so delicious.

2.

Demoman carried a large jug of orange juice as he walked on. He didn't bother to knock; he wasn't so cruel as to torture a hungover man. Scout's room was covered in baseball stars and Tom Jones posters. Comics and stroke magazines were laid out across the floor near his bed, while muddy shoes and dirty clothes were strewn everywhere else. He must've pissed off the laundry lady something fierce if he had this much built up.

Either that or he went through that many clothes a day, which was possible given how he ran all over the place, until his entire shirt was soaked with sweat.

His blanket was a bright yellow, covered in BONK designs. Demoman couldn't help but think he'd gotten that blanket just so he could make endless dirty puns and come-ons.

"Heard ye were tangoin' with the porcelain god," Demoman said in a low voice. He closed the door behind him, careful to pull up so it wouldn't squeak.

Scout could only groan. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and curled up underneath.

"Ye do that and Miss Pauling will have to drag ye out to work. Should I tell her ye are out sick?"

"Yeah, would you? I don't want any cute girls seein' me like this. I smell, I'm probably slightly less handsome than usual."

"Maybe they'd want to take care of ye, ever think of that?" Demoman said.

"I don't want to look this uncool in front of anyone," Scout said, sounding truly pitiful.

"I don't count, eh?"

"You understand. You get barfy and hungover all the time, and everyone still thinks you're cool," Scout said. He sniffed and pulled the blanket around him more. 

Demoman pulled out a collapsible funnel he always kept handy for refilling his flasks. He had one bottle of Scrumpy, with just a little bit of alcohol at the bottom. He poured out the orange juice into the bottle, and pushed the bottom beneath the blanket.

"Here you go, lad. Take this. Like the hair of the dog, it'll get ye up on yae feet. Now don't spill it. This is precious stuff."

A hand reached out from under the covers and took it. Demoman waited.

"Ye need an excuse? I could tell her yae were cursed by a wizard," Demoman said.

"Nah, I don't wanna disappoint my fans. I just need a moment."

Scout coughed, and let out another shuddering groan.

"Okay, maybe a _couple_ moments."

"Ye will live to fight, and annoy the hell out of all everyone around ye, even if it doesn't feel like it now," Demoman said.

Scout peeked out from under the covers. "Of course I friggin' will, I'm the star of this team, and you guys wouldn't even know what to do without me cappin' the points, and stealin' the briefcases," Scout said.

"That's the spirit," Demoman said.

Underneath the covers, Scout groaned and held his head. 

"Drink more orange juice, lad. That's the ticket. Trust me, I've nursed many a hangover," Demoman said.

Scout reached out and pulled the entire carton under the covers with him. Demoman certainly had to hand it to Scout, he had plenty of determination, that was for sure.

3.

The kitchen of RED base was usually empty, save for vermin and bullet holes. Sometimes the walls were burned out, and sometimes he'd have to step over guns. At least there was less piss on the floor than last time he'd tried to make a damned sandwich here. Most of the men had to fend for themselves when it came to food. Their employers didn't exactly provide with a cafeteria. Even if they did, Medic would probably go poisoning their soup, just to see how they'd react. 

More than one fight had broken out over who got dibs of food they brought back. He preferred guarding his food and Scrumpy with bombs. Very few, even Scout were daring or hungry enough to risk being blown apart for a snack.

Of course, this sometimes meant he stumbled groggily into his own explosives, and had one hell of a rude awakening. It was still worth it to come out of Respawn and to what was left of the kitchen to find his meal intact.

Many names had been carved into the table. Plenty of women, some men. Some were X'd out, either revenge kills, or ex-lovers. Sometimes both, given who had put them on. Demoman sat at the scarred table, and peeled an apple with a knife he'd borrowed straight from Sniper. The peels came off, twisting to fall to the ground. 

Scout had a way of inserting himself in conversations, and never seeing when someone was busy. He looked over Demoman's shoulder, as if peeling fruit was so very interesting.

"So----! You probably know a lot about chemicals and stuff, but you know what---"

Demoman set the knife aside, before one of them lost fingers.

"If ye say that ye know better, I'm goin' to put out your eyes, and make a necklace of them," Demoman said absently.

Scout peeked out from behind the chair. He was wearing a red shirt emblazoned with _BONK_ over the front, and a pair of jeans. Considering he was out of his uniform, he must've been flirting around again. 

"You're a real funny guy! Reaaal funny. But, actually! This isn't about bombs, though I totally got plenty of ideas for those. See, maybe you can outdrink me, but can you eat as many hot dogs as I can? I literally won third place for this once. I would've won second, too, except the guy ahead of me held off from barfin' just long enough to beat me. The bastard stole my friggin' crown, and I aim to get it back."

"I cannot think of anythin' I'd like less. Except maybe havin' my guts blown apart."

"You get ribbons, though--and braggin' rights. The girls down at the chicken joint _totally_ dig bein' a hot dog eatin' champ. I know, I totally got with one of them, if you know what I mean."

"Well, smack my ass and call me dandy, I never could resist ribbons," Demoman said. He slowly took a bite of the crisp, juicy apple to savor the taste.

"I know, right? I wanna win enough ribbons that I can tape them to my arms and show off for the chicks. Biceps plus first place ribbons? Their panties are goin' to hit the floor so hard, they'll break it. In fact--! In fact, I brought some hot dogs to show you just how hard we are goin' to win!"

He fought with the packaging, and finally managed to pull the meat free without scattering them across the room. 

"Check out how many hot dogs I can put in my mouth!" His mouth was cavernous, and so wide that he'd fitted three in and still was pushing in more. Demoman could only stare, transfixed as Scout shoved even more hot dogs in.

"You'll choke," Demoman said. Scout shook his head. His mouth was ballooned out like hamster's, and somehow, he managed to not die on his floor. Maybe it was simply a testament to how powerful his jaw had become.

"A feat of feckin' magic," Demoman said.

Scout chewed furiously, and managed to swallow even faster. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Demoman would've sworn it an impossible feat, and assumed some slight of hand had been in order.

But, no. Scout really did have that big a mouth. Scout smirked and puffed up his chest in some victory strut.

"That's me, pally. If they had a beer contest like this as well, I bet you'd take first prize. Your liver is just...scary, man. Like a wizard and a dragon, but in your _body._ "

This was the first time he'd ever seen Scout admit defeat. Demoman smirked. "So, ye give in?"

"Hey, just cause you got that crown now doesn't mean I won't steal it," Scout said.

"Good luck, lad. Ye will need it," Demoman said.

"But with that liver, I bet you can eat a ton too, right? Your liver wizard dragon powers have got to count for somethin'. Because Inquisitor Chicken is doin' another hot dog eatin' contest, and we gotta win this one," Scout said.

"Why would a chicken place be doin' a hot dog contest? I don't understand ye Americans," Demoman said.

"I don't ask! Especially not when some of the finest girls around are goin' to be there," Scout said. 

"So this was all some ploy to get me to be ye wingman, I should have known," Demoman said.

"Ribbons, pally. _Ribbons_. We are goin' to go down in history!"

Demoman shrugged. There were worse ways to spend a weekend. However, that didn't mean he was going down without a fight.

He pulled out the knife and thrust it into the table between his splayed fingers.

"Ye want me to come? Play me for it. Best of three wins."

Scout leapt back, his hands in front of his face as if her were warding away a blow.

" _Geez!_ You can use knives, too?" 

"Aye. They're just wee baby swords, lookin' for some blood to sip on." He rubbed his thumb down the side of the knife. He could just see a blurry mirror of them reflected in its depths. 

"So, basically Scotsmen get drunk and cut their fingers off for fun, when not blowin' themselves up? You guys gotta get out more. Maybe take up a hobby―like baseball."

"Not true. We also play golf," Demoman said.

"Golf? Tryin' to cut people's heads off with golf clubs doesn't count!"

"That's not all there is to golf. There's huntin' for Nessie at the 18th hole," Demoman said.

"Is she cute?" Scout said.

"If yae are into infernal beasts from the depths!"

Scout scratched his hairless chin. "Seen a few girls that matched that description. I still would've taken them out," Scout said. He smirked, chuckling at his own joke.

"Ye horndog, get over here and take your turn with the knife," Demoman said.

"Give it over," Scout said. 

Demoman held it out to him sharp end out. Scout drew back with a grimace.

"Friggin' hell, man. Didn't anyone ever teach you not to give blades out pointy end first? Scissors too."

"What fun would that be?" Demoman said. 

"I don't know, ain't none of this sounded fun." Scout held the knife above his hand. He started to bring it down, and flinched.

"Pullin' out already?" Demoman said.

"Hell no, I-I'm just startin' with my practice runs. Gotta warm up for somethin' like this."

"Hmm. Ye ever played Russian Roulette?"

"What, didn't anybody ever tell you not to bring a knife to a gun fight? Do you hate fingers or somethin'?" Scout said.

"Maybe I'd hate them less if ye would stop givin' me the one finger salute," Demoman said.

"Trust me, pally, tall man will be back in all his fingerin' glory once I'm done playin' with these knives," Scout said.

Scout held up the knife and took a deep breath. In a quick series of motions he stabbed the knife into the table between his splayed fingers. 

"Not bad for ye first try," Demoman said. He took the knife back and stabbed down into the table between his fingers, enough to leave scars in the grooves of the table. The names of old loves and enemies were struck out with each stab. He left the knife right in the familiar handwriting of _Jane_ , both drawn in love and crossed out in hate.

There wasn't a single scratch, or drop of blood on either of them.

"Well, we have all these fingers still. Time to try again," Demoman said.

"So what exactly is the point of this, other than cuttin' yourself up for God knows why? Is this some Scottish thing?" Scout said.

"Dancin' with death. Life is so sweet once ye have been on the edge. Each breath is beautiful for a while there, until life crumbles and gets stale. Then ye have to do it all over again to remind yaeself why ye are still here in the first place," Demoman said. He looked down to the knife, wistful, even nostalgic. Scars and names, bittersweet memories, they all faded away at the edge of death.

"We do that every friggin' day, and most of the time we ain't even ruinin' tables. Miss Pauling is goin' to kill us if we ruin anymore furniture," Scout said.

"Ah, she won't know unless we tell her. Of course, with that mouth of yaes, she'll know before the hour is up," Demoman said.

"Hey, _I_ can keep a secret," Scout said. He crossed his arms, childish and petulant as ever.

"Aye, if someone tied ye up and gagged ye," Demoman said.

Scout looked about to protest, but then shrugged. "Okay, you got me there. But I promise I'll make it sound like it was my idea, so I'll be the one to get in trouble. How about that for a truce?"

Demoman pulled the knife out. The names were entirely cut to pieces now, with little trace they were ever there. A shame memories weren't as easy to kill. Even with all this alcohol, he still had those bittersweet nights of remembrance. 

"Deal," Demoman said.

4.

The whole place looked like one cheap festival, with streamers littered with chicken pictures, and various stands that looked like they wouldn't withstand Scout's weight, let alone Heavy's. Evidently, the event wasn't quite as much as Scout had hyped it up to be. Only a tiny girl in a little dress that looked like she might faint halfway through was in the running.

All told, little was as good as Scout claimed it was.

Scout was out of his uniform, wearing jeans, his lucky high-tops with stars, and a red t-shirt with the most douchebag of a hot dog he'd ever seen. It wasn't even a real hot dog, but with its smug grin and sunglasses, Demoman still wanted to fight it. Truth be told, it kind of resembled Scout about the smile.

Demoman stuck to his usual uniform. His last suit had gone up in flames from rocket fire. He hadn't gotten around to buying another one. Except he'd left the grenades that usually lined his chest at home, and filled them with confetti instead. With a mouth like Scout's, they were bound to take home the gold, and nothing said victory like two half-drunken men tossing confetti over themselves in the gutter.

Scout craned his neck. "Lemme know if you see any blonds with a tube top. I _met_ a girl at a chicken place. Wouldn't mind runnin' in to her again, if you know what I mean," Scout said.

"So ye are sayin' she joined yae knittin' club?"

"I---yeah, that's exactly what we did. Knitted." Scout rolled his eyes.

The queue was remarkably short. In fact, it was just them. However, the man in charge was busy having an animated phone conversation at the podium.

"Mr. Hale, please step away from the Petting Zoo. Sir, the goats are not evil, and they didn't just tell you to fight them. Sir, they don't have fingers, they couldn't have given you the finger--Sir--siir?"

He held the phone from his ear, as a loud yell over the receiver turned to static. He let out a long sigh, and set the phone aside.

"I'm not being paid enough for this," the man muttered.

"Oh, next," the man with the clipboard said. Demoman could swear he'd seen that black-haired man, like a male Pauling around before. But his memories tended to be muddled. That and he personally made an effort not to befriend any of the staff. Only wee Miss Pauling was memorable enough, with her thick glasses and ferocity enough to keep all of them in check that he couldn't shove her in the back of his mind like all those other staff members who mysteriously went missing months later.

 _Never remember too much about ye clients, lest ye have to turn on them next_ his mother had always told him. As a Highland Demolitions man, and a mercenary, he never could be too careful with memories.

But Scout was far more reckless. He remembered names, and befriended the staff, and even asked about them. He flirted with the female assistants, and even asked about the missing, the one rule that everyone but this naive, dancing on dreams boy knew better than to do.

Demoman always figured he'd wake up and find Scout among the missing with how bad at secrets he was, but apparently Scout was just too valuable to stay in the ground for long.

He grinned at the man. "Hey, Bidwell. Long time no see! You here scopin' out chicks too?"

"Actually, I'm working," Bidwell said. He tugged at his too-tight collar. His oiled dark hair shone in the badlands sun.

"Sign us up, man! Right under _Team awesome,_ " Scout said. He put his arm across Demoman's shoulders. "Awesome and Awesome, reportin' for duty."

The man checked his clipboard and shook his head.

"I'm afraid this is a solo affair. No team efforts and only US residents are allowed. However, if you stay tuned for the International Hot Dog eating contest in a few months, then he'll have his chance--" he said.

"What do you mean you're not doin' teams? You did teams last year! And we got judged by Saxton friggin' Hale, and he sure as hell isn't American! You tryin' to lowball us? Do that and I'll friggin' ball you!"

Scout pulled his arm back, and reached out to grab Bidwell's collar. Apparently used to such gestures, Bidwell quickly thrust his clipboard in front of his face to block any blows.

"Sir, if you'd just calm down, these are the rules. If you'd actually read the accompanying packet.... Sir--!"

"I'll pack it up your ass if you don't stop with this bullshit! Stop fuckin' scammin' us!"

Bidwell pulled away, grasped for the phone and started to dial. Over the receiver, there were loud bellowing animal noises, and laughter.

"Okay, that didn't work---how about signing you up instead? Would that work?" Bidwell said. He mopped at sweat at his forehead.

"Stupid friggin' fuck," Scout said. Just as he was about to reach out again, Demoman pulled him back.  
He wasn't in the habit of stopping fights, but Demoman wasn't sure he could take Saxton Hale on. At least, not with only Scout at his side.

"Lad, no need to kill the messenger. Ye got yaeself in, and that's all that matters. I was just comin' along for the ride anyways," Demoman said.

"But, they're blockin' you, cause you ain't American. That's no friggin' fair, who the hell is runnin' this place, _Solider?_ "

"There'd be more flags if he was," Demoman said.

"Yeah, the booth babes would be wearin' flag bikinis and not hot dog suits, though I guess though are pretty sexy hot dog suits. Scout grimaced. "I can't believe they're hotdog-blockin' me like this. I had it all planned out!"

"If that display back there was anythin', yae don't even need me. The power of that mouth of yaes will win all the prizes."

"Maybe," Scout said. "I mean, my mouth is great, but we were goin' to both have ribbons! We were goin' to be _a team!_ "

"How about this, for every hot dog ye eat, I'll take a drink. Then it'll be like we're both gettin' shitfaced together," Demoman said.

Scout brightened considerably. "Oh, like brotherhood of the hot dog! That could work!"

"Or that," Demoman said. He shrugged. Scout always was finding loyalty and brotherhood when there actually was just drunkenness and bad choices. Maybe to him they were the same thing.

"Okay, but you'll drink yourself into a coma if you drink as much as I'm goin' to eat. I'm tellin' you, I'm takin' home _gold_."

"Wouldn't be the first time, lad," Demoman said.

"Gimme that friggin' pen, Bids, I'm goin' to eat some friggin' hot dogs!"

Bidwell held the clipboard out at length. He studied Scout like a wary animal, ready to pull back from any strike. But Scout was too busy signing his name in big swirls. Even his damned signature was one big egotistical _fuck you_ to the world.

5.

Scout held his stomach. Demoman was frankly, surprised he was alive, let alone still conscious. The ceiling was spinning above him. It came to mind that Scout had finally managed to beat him at drinking, through in a roundabout way.

He couldn't tell if there really were twelve doves up there, like Medic's little pets had really bred, or been cloned into some harbinger of cyborg bird evil, or if he was that drunk.

"Instead of the victory panel, we're in the dumps. I can't believe it." Scout groaned and turned to his side. "I regret everythin', I regret everythin' I ever did."

Medic bent over them. He blocked out the light, but not the cooing of the doves.

"Oh, looks like it's time to pump stomachs again! One of my favorite procedures! Which is good, because so many of you keep coming back for it," Medic said cheerfully. He was covered in even more blood than usual across his once-pristine uniform, which was never a good sign.

"What was it? A wedding? Oktoberfest? A Thursday?"

"Hot dogs..." Scout said.

"Again? Did you win?" Medic said. He tilted his head.

"Not this year..." Scout gasped and clutched his stomach.

"Ah, there's always next year. You know, if I implanted a cow stomach inside you--see, they have four stomachs--you could definitely win. And unlike steroids, no one checks for animal implants! It's a flawless plan!" He laughed, like he was auditioning for the role of Mr. Jekyll meets Doctor Frankenstein, movie edition.

"I'm goin' to pass, doc. Could you just help us out here? Demo's goin' to die if we don't do somethin'. Miss Pauling will probably make me drag him out into the desert and bury him myself if she finds out."

"Yes, she is very prone to doing things like that. She's quite the organ thief. Always burying perfectly good bodies. She doesn't even use them, either. Such a travesty! Ahh, you were saying I get to pump both your stomachs?" Medic rubbed his bloodstained hands together. " _Excellent,_ I was just getting bored."

Medic hummed to himself as he pulled out strange contraptions from a large white cupboard. Most of them looked more at home in a museum about medieval torture than a doctor's office.

"I can't believe I took second place again. That little girl just kept eatin' and eatin'. I thought she was goin' to gnaw out the wall. She--she was so friggin' little and frail! It looked she should've gone to the hospital, not the eatin' contest! And when she was done, she asked for _more_. It was like her stomach was...a portal to another world."

"A portal to another world? Hmmm, I suppose I'd need a wizard for that. All I've got are cow stomachs," Medic said.

Scout let out a moan, and sunk a little deeper into that red chair with the fraying cushions. "I ate so many hot dogs, and it still wasn't enough! ...I don't ever want to see another one as long as I friggin' live."

"It's okay, boyo. They'll be other eatin' contests. Maybe ye will have better luck with chicken," Demoman said.

He gave Scout the thumb's up, even though there were about five of him now. Either Scout had managed to surpass the speed of sound, or he really was that drunk this time. He was betting on the latter.

"Been a long time since I was in the emergency room with a friend," Demoman muttered to himself. Scout didn't hear, but he preferred it that way.

There always was a solidarity to just skirting the edge of death. Last time it'd been a hidden handshake across the battlefield. Now it was getting shitfaced and being dragged back to life with one dubious procedure or another. One where they'd probably either come out with less organs or more than they started out with, depending on Medic's whims and mood.

Scout reached out to pat his arm.

"We'll get out of this―we'll get through this," Scout said.

"Of course you will. Whether you beg for me to kill you after this, that remains to be seen. Oh, and _oops_ , I'm out of anesthesia. So sorry, we'll have to operate without it." Medic's grin had a sadistic edge as he pulled free the very same bonesaw he used on the battlefield.

Scout clutched to his arm, with a whimper in the back of his throat. Demoman had already seen the gates of hell and fought his way back many times. This back-alley doctor was nothing compared to that.

6.  
On the bulletin board, there was now Scout and Demoman drinking together, and another shot of them vomiting in the gutter, and another of them passed out, barely clothed in the dumpster. He didn't remember that part, though it was called blackout drunk for a reason. Having a Spy around meant never having to worry about any action going undocumented. No matter what embarrassing or disastrous thing that he'd rather Miss Pauling not find out about, by the next morning it'd be pinned up to the wall.

At least they were wearing pants this time.

Of course, Scout was so reckless that he hoped Miss Pauling would find out about all his mistakes and chastise him. Demoman had never seen a boy dance with death like that one, and Demoman had personally had arm-wrestled with death on more than one occasion.

This might've been the first time they got antics posted publicly for all the base to see, but it would be far from the last.

7.  
Scout held a cup of pop in his bandaged hands. He had new band-aids over his fingers, with superheroes faded from the water. He was leaned against the wooden side of a building, like he'd studied poses on how to be cool, but it came out so forced and awkward that it ruined any chance he had of ever achieving the nonchalance associated with the sort of tough-guy he was emulating.

He pitched the empty can towards an open mesh trash can, and missed.

"Ey, I never was anythin' for basketball, but if I'd had my bat out, I could've hit that for _miles_."

"Sure you could," Demoman said.

"You wanna see? I'll go get that can and show you right now. Bet I can put it right over that water tower in the first shot."

Scout bent to pick up the can and tossed it in the air. He pulled out his bat from his bag, and tossed that as well, like he was taking up juggling. 

"Watch me, this is goin' to be a shot for the ages. They should film this, because this is the kind of hit that makes girls lose it."

He smirked and chucked the can up. The hit made a cracking, a crushing noise and the can went far into the skyline. He didn't quite make it over that water tower, an impossible goal without explosives and enough recklessness, but that can soared straight over one of the biggest houses in town.

"Did you see that? Right over that roof like I said."

Demoman couldn't help but smile. Scout had a way of rewriting history to make himself look like the victor every time, even when his bragging failed.

"So you did, lad," Demoman said. "Ye chasin' after the lasses tonight? Of course, what am I askin'? Ye are always thinkin' with yae wang."

"Why, you goin' along and goin' to hit the town with me?"

"No, I'm off to the cliffs for some fun," Demoman said. He kept himself as mysteriously as he could. It took seconds before Scout was hooked. It was hard to keep his smirking in check. Really, Scout was so predictable at times.

"Fun, huh?" Scout said. "Count me in as interested. Though for you fun is probably like, stealin' heads with your scary ghost sword or somethin'," Scout said.

"True, but there'll be more explosions for this," Demoman said. "Much, much more."

"So what you're tellin' me is you want to do the fourth without patriotism and it actually bein' July, just blowin' stuff up? Man, if Soldier ever hears about this, our necks are goin' to be _so_ snapped!"

"Don't be ridiculous, lad. There doesn't need to be a holiday to blow things up. Any occasion will do, like the day endin' in y," Demoman said.

"Well, I'm game. You bring the boom, I'll bring the beer."

"That stuff ye call 'beer' in America has no bite. I'll bring some Scrumpy, and maybe a bit of Polish Vodka--for burnin', not drinkin'. That's the kind of stuff that could punch ye in the gut, and leave ye hungover for weeks," Demoman said.

"Aw no, I had some of that, and it was like a kick to the face. I'm bringin' my own stuff. Just don't make it boom, all right? I like my sandwiches in my stomach, not in the air and in pieces," Scout said.

"No promises," Demoman said.

Scout rolled his eyes, and shoved another piece of gum in his mouth. He was always chewing on something. Hard candies, lollypops, little smarties or M&Ms, the side of his mouth, or his lower lip until it looked like he had a cold sore. He always had a youthful smell of sugar about him. Not even the edge of sweat and blood could take away that saccharine edge.

"Come to the outer badlands, if ye _dare_ ," Demoman said.

"Oh, I'll be there! It ain't like I'm some baby or somethin'! I'll be _there!_ "

Hours later, they were out past cliffs edged in gold and purple. It was too far away for Miss Pauling to come in and ruin their fun; by the time she got here, all the explosives would be gone, dust and air and smoke shifting away like memories. Scout laid back in the sand, his hands behind his neck. One knee was up. Somewhere between that afternoon and now, he'd ripped out the knee of his pants. His knee was covered in even more faded superhero band-aids.

"Careful ye don't get cactus spines in ye ass," Demoman said. He pulled out a crate of Scrumpy from the back of the truth they'd 'borrowed' from the base.

"Oh man, I got so many of those frickin' things in my feet while runnin', and this sand is such shit for my laps in the mornin'. I once pulled out a spine this long."

He made a c with his hands to illustrate. 

"I was swearin' up a storm, you probably heard me! Hell, people in _Boston_ probably heard me. Kinda miss goin' by the docks. Of course, there was a good chance I'd accidentally be a witness when some mob guy dumped a body down there. Or smuggled guns out back across the sea. Not too different from down here, where I go to take a leak in the wrong cave and I'm goin' to be runnin' smack into Miss Pauling with a shovel covered in blood and holdin' a severed head. Did I ever tell you that one? Here I am, holdin' my dick in the friggin' desert. It looked like I was friggin' strokin' off to frickin' cacti!"

Demoman burst out laughing. The bottles clanked together, as his arms shook from the extent of belly-rolling laughter.

He set the crate down and twisted off the top. Warm or cold, Scrumpy always went down like fire. The comfort took a while.

He shook his head. "Only ye could get in this sort of situation."

"That even the worst of it! I'm screamin' about how I'm not a pervert, I'm just takin' a leak. But her glasses were so covered with blood she was like 'what are you talkin' about, Scout? What the hell are you doin' here?' It was all I could do to pull my pants back up and act like the goods weren't out on full display. And god, nothin' kills a boner like a severed head, oh my god."

"Could've been worse. She could've said 'it's nothin' much, I've seen bigger,'" Demoman said.

"Hey, that's a low blow," Scout said. He cuffed Demoman in the shoulder, and laughed. "Not all of us want to have a dick like _that_."

Demoman could only nod in the unspoken reference to their Russian comrade. 

"True, that's the kind of manhood that makes the lads and lassies run away."

"Besides, it's not the size, but what you do with it," Scout said.

"True words spoken by the small," Demoman said. He couldn't keep from smiling as Scout cuffed him again, affectionate even in his aggression

"Fuck off," Scout said, but he was laughing. He tried to punch Demoman, but missed, and fell on his stomach. Barely a sip in and he was already a drunken fool. Scout rolled over and stared up at that sky, like he was practicing his flirting game right there at those stars.

"Eyy, Nice skyline here. I guess I'll give it that, even if there's rocks for miles. Look at all those stars. It's like, so _big,_ and crap. I love it."

"Much too peaceful a night sky. I have to fuck it up, and drive away those ghosts on the horizon," Demoman said.

Demoman took a quick swig of Scrumpy to steady his nerves. He activated a sticky bomb and quickly tossed it up in the air. Before it could hit the ground, he set it off. Smoke filled the air, with such a wonderful blast. No matter how many times he saw them, he never tired of the fire and fury, cresting along the ground or air. Like birth and death all in one.

"Ooh, fuckin' up stuff is my favorite! Lemme try!"

He held out the gun to Scout against his better judgment. 

"Remember, one wrong move and ye ass will be just more flesh-colored fireworks scattered over these cliffs. Actually-"

He pulled out his grenade launcher.

"Use this instead. Aim it high and they'll explode up there, fractals and fragments. A big beauty of a boom," Demoman said. He touched the gun, an affectionate stroke of his thumb across the barrel.

"Gotcha," Scout said. Scout took a drink of beer and pointed the grenade launcher straight up into the air. 

He shot off three red grenades which flew up high, only to explode in red and gold across the twilight sky. The stars were obscured for a moment, lost in the smoke.

"This is great. Not only can you blow the BLU's sky high, you can make fireworks, too! I'm thinkin' this would be great for pickin' up chicks. The girls always get with that action hero after he blows shit up, so I bet that'd work for me. You probably get tons of gals, eh?"

"What, ye are actually _askin'_ me somethin' instead of tryin' to turn everythin' into a pissin' match?" Demoman said.

"Hey, I know a lot of things, but I ain't some kind of boom master. Yet, anyways. That is where _you_ come in," Scout said. He sounded exactly like one of those late night salesmen.

"Here's a word of advice, lad: Don't challenge Sniper to a pissin' match. He'll always win."

"Tell me about it. He didn't just write his name in the snow, he wrote out the entire Australian manifesto, plus the entire lyrics to every song Tom Jones ever wrote. I thought he'd run out of steam, but he just kept on goin' and goin. His bladder has to be the size of Texas."

"Impressive," Demoman said.

"I was goin' to say friggin' gross, but at least that's less for him to throw around. I'd rather be on fire than covered in his piss!"

"He was just tryin' to help," Demoman said.

"Hey, you could throw your alcohol instead. Then I'd smell better, at least," Scout said.

"Nay, that'd just make the flame burn hotter," Demoman said.

"Seriously?" Scout turned to look at him. He had a bruise on his chin that Demoman hadn't noticed before.

"Simple science, lad," Demoman said. He took a sip of Scrumpy.

Scout shook his head, and frowned. "Don't give me that shit. Nothin' about science is simple. You got chemicals and crap, and they go bang. I couldn't go back to my science lab after I put the wrong ones together." 

"Oooh, was it a glorious explosion? Tell me about this dirty girl. Did ye raise the roof?" Demoman said eagerly.

Scout spread his arms out as wide as he could. "Bo--friggin'--om. Blew down the whole wing of the school. Classes couldn't resume for half a year. That was my ticket out of that place, that's for sure," Scout said.

Demoman burst out laughing. He could just imagine that little laddie boy running past the flames, leaping out a window and probably screaming like a wee baby as the whole damn place went up in a blaze.

"Aye, ye are somethin' else," Demoman said.

He put several more grenades, and shot them up into the stars, making his own fireworks. Just the sight of them bursting up there in the skies both put a fire in him, and calmed it down to embers. 

"The first rule of workin' with the chemicals is listenin' to everythin' I say. One crossed wire, and keh-blewie. Yae insides rainin' all over Teufort. The second rule is to tell no one."

"Nothin'? Not even the really good jokes?" Scout said.

"Those are mine to tell, not yaes to ruin as ye forget the best part and digress about yae childhood ten times," Demoman.

"Wait, _no one?_ Not even hot chicks?" Scout said again. He counted on his fingers, as if silence was an mathematical problem he just couldn't figure out.

"Especially hot chicks! Ye never know when a hot lassie might just be a spy, tryin' to get some secrets."

"Like our spies, or James Bond girl type spies?" Scout said.

"Could be either, depending on how bored ours gets," Demoman said.

Scout nodded knowingly. Whenever Spy got bored, there was no telling what would happen. Countries had been felled because their television was out that day. 

"Secondly, if ye play with chemicals, know that ye may bring the curses of the fallen and fell ones. Or maybe my family's just cursed. And if ye want a true set of fireworks, put a flame to this Green Fairy here, she'll give ye a ride," Demomans said. He took another swig of Scrumpy, and savored the bite.

"Fairies, like those tiny girls with wings?" Scout grinned to himself. "Think maybe they got glasses?"

"Could be. Mostly they like to stick thorns in ye socks at night if ye don't leave tribute. Ye have been leavin' milk out for them, haven't ye?"

"Hell no, I ain't about to waste food. I was raised right. It ain't fun goin' hungry," Scout said.

Demoman leaned in. His voice was a low, husky whisper. "Then keep yaeself caught in iron. Stay in the cities, lad. Go into the countries and they'll take their payment out of yae _hide_. They got a long memory, and never forget who slighted them. I'd know; I've tangled with them. When I was a wee thing, I managed to piss off the fae courts. Now they fight with ghosts and creatures of the night for a chance at me."

"You almost had me goin' for a second there, but you're totally pullin' my leg!"

"They call them stories, but I've lived them. Why is this so hard for ye to believe? Ye've gone against ghosts and wizards."

"Yeah, but those are _different_ ," Scout said. However, there was just a slight tremor in his voice. He looked to his side. "Right? I mean, it ain't like I'm goin' to wake up and have Tinkerbell on my chest flirtin' with me. Though I guess I could be down with that. But, that whole winged little critters, that crap is just _fairy stories_. Fake, never goin' to happen. Right?"

"Oh, no lad. The fae are all too real," Demoman said.

"You know what we should do?" Scout hiccuped. He touched to his chest, a look of sheer panic already forming on his face.

Demoman pulled out a ring of iron. "Not go playin' in fairy rings, that's what. Not that there's many of those in this damned wasteland." 

He reached out towards Scout. "Give me ye tags."

"What? These belonged to my dad! I ain't got nothin' else left of him! Seriously, take my shirt, my covers--anythin' but those--"

"Just for a moment. I'm only borrowin' 'em," Demoman said.

"O-Okay," Scout said. He pulled them out and held them out. For a moment, Demoman thought Scout might pull his hand back and hold the tags to his chest.

Demoman opened up the chain and slipped an iron charm, so small that it lost itself among the tags.

"There, that'll keep them away."

"Just a little thing like this?" Scout squinted at the charm, and brushed his thumb across the edge. "They must not be very badass if I can kick their asses with a friggin' bangle."

"Iron is a magical thing," Demoman said.

"Funny, Soldier said the same thing. Except it was steel, and he called me Tinkerbelle and said he was going to introduce his foot to my ass. Okay, it wasn't the same thing at all, but----"

Demoman chuckled. He lifted up his flask for new friends and old memories. 

"I guess this means we're real pals now, we even got a friendship necklace," Scout said.

Demoman didn't respond. Last time he'd jinxed it, believed, loved and look at the ashes that had come from that. Explosions were only beautiful if they weren't destroying everything that was his own. Watching Jane turn to a true enemy was a dream which still haunted him so deep that not even the alcohol could take the nightmare away. Every love and friendship was covered in this shadow of meeting for a drink across the battlefield. Every time he thought about reaching his hand out, he remembered, and drew back.

Until now.

"Drink up, lad. Luggin' full crates is no good," Demoman said instead. 

Scout always had to make a show. He still hadn't learned a thing, guzzling straight down as the juices dripped down his boyish chin. Demoman had half a mind to teach Scout a thing or two about drinking, among other things.

But the other half was having too much fun laughing at him, and so far it had won over.

"Okay, okay, I remembered what I was goin' to tell you," Scout said. He teetered, already stumbling towards that happy drunkenness, where everything was soft around the edges, and bad ideas seemed like a new sort of brilliance.

"We've got to show those BLUs. We should go straiiight over to their base and show em what we got. And I'm not talkin' about guns here," Scout said.

"Is this one of ye damned flexin' things again?" Demoman said.

"If I was talkin' about flexin', then I'd be talkin' about guns, wouldn't I? This is moonin'! Don't tell me you never mooned anyone?" Scout pushed himself up. He was outright gaping now, as if mooning was the sacrosanct of things. "In fact, I'm pretty sure you mooned me last Thursday!"

"Most of my moonin' isn't intentional. The wind loves me a little too much sometimes," Demoman said.

"That's what you get for wearin' a friggin' skirt to battle. I got it, though. You're tryin' to distract the other side with your freakishly handsome thighs! Well...I guess it works, because we win whenever you wear your lucky skirt!"

"It's a _kilt_. Traditional Scottish clothes," Demoman said.

"You're just showin' off! Oh look at me, I'm a tough guy, I can look just as great in any kind of clothes, oh look at me, I'm not wearin' any underwear, look at me, I look like I belong on one of those romance novels my ma used to read that I certainly didn't check out for the hot scenes. Seriously, pal, I know all about you. You wear that for the same reason I flex: to show off."

"A loudmouth man once told me 'if ye got it, flaunt it,'" Demoman said.

"Hey, you are listenin' to me!" Scout propped himself up on his elbow. "About time, too."

He was all sharp angles and thinness. The first day Demoman had seen him on the battlefield, he'd thought Scout wouldn't last the night before he'd go running back to the city streets he'd come from. But, he was surprisingly hardy. He'd lasted through all these years, buoyed by his pride and all the tales he spun for himself.

"How could I not? I'm half blind, not deaf. And ye are faster than me, I can't run off. I suppose I could surf the skies with the bombs, but ye would just run along and shout louder!"

"You're a riot. But, seriously, pack your explodey stuff, because we're goin' on a moonin' adventure!"

"What's next, _a panty raid?_ " Demoman said.

Scout almost fell over, as if the brilliance of the idea had hit him right in the chest. He gave a thumbs up, smoothing over any embarrassment with his typical liar's charm. 

"Whoa, you have awesome ideas! We could pull down the flag and hoist up someone's boxers!" Scout pushed himself up and punched the air. "This is the best idea since...since...I don't know, baseball?"

"Soldier would kill you for that," Demoman said.

"He kills me for friggin' everythin', so nothin' new there, even when I'm on the same damn team. Really, though, we've got to rub BLU's nose in the fact that we friggin' destroyed them today! I bet you can make it there in two splody of yours."

"We beat them nine to one today, I'd say we rubbed it in," Demoman said.

"Yeah, but now we gotta remind them of their humiliatin' defeat in the best way we know how: with our asses!"

"Ah, gettin' some salt and lemon juice to rub in the wounds. I like it," Demoman said. He grinned in the sort of way that used to have people whisper about him being a changeling child. 

"Whoa, that's goin' hard, but I like it!" Scout broke out in a big grin.

"Why is it always asses with ye? Always with the 'butt stuff,'" Demoman said. He shook his head.

"Hey, I'm not the one who had his ass up on the billboard! Though I should try that, because you got a whole friggin' fanclub out of that one damn ad."

Demoman shrugged. "The power of the alcohol, lad. She does mysterious things. Speaking of which, I'm drunk enough for this to sound like a good idea. Let's go," Demoman said. 

He brushed himself off and pulled out his sticky launcher. They'd finished up the alcohol together, bit by foolish bit. Tomorrow there would be consequences, but right now they were floating so high that no reason could ever find them.

"All right! It's ass destroyin' time!" He leapt up, and hugged onto Demoman's chest, his legs curled tight about his waist. He was light, a little barely there waif, more ego and talk than anything.

"Kay, boomy time. Just don't blow of the legs. Or my balls. Or my face. In fact, leave it all intact, I'm way too handsome to be a human firework!"

"Don't worry, I've set these bombs to never blow up any of the team. Of course, that means I didn't have enough to keep _me_ from bein' blown sky high. Ah, is the life of a Demolitions man."

"Aww, you really do love us all," Scout said. He cuffed him, because the moment was too drunken, too sentimental. Good thing, or Demoman would've had to give that punch, but to himself, before he got caught up in the sort of friendship that burnt too fast, turned to ashes and rubble and left him feeling hallowed out again, haunted by the ghosts of what could have been.

"Bommmbs away!"

Scout shrieked and clung to him, but the noise was lost in the rush of the explosions as they were hurtling through starlights and cliffs. There was a clarity in those moments, with the spy spinning until the stars were white lines, a blur. Scout clutched desperately, his hands twisted up at his back, as Demoman landed off a far cliff. 

Two more stickies before he'd have to go running for a health pack. Scout's skin was smudged with smoke. He let out a little trembley noise and clung closer.

"What, I've seen ye leapin' all about before. This can't be that bad," Demoman said.

"Bad? That--what--- _awesome!_ But in the rollercoaster, highs and lows sorta way. I never got a chance for one of those. Didn't have the pennies enough for tickets," Scout said.

"Well, this is better than one of those. We're almost there, so hold tight," Demoman said.

"I-I don't know how you do it every friggin' day. How? Ye got balls of steel or somethin'? Or too many drinks to care?"

"Both, maybe," Demoman said. He chuckled as they went flying again, to the lights and far away from the badlands bit of paradise they'd chiseled out. Maybe it was a sign that their Spy had also decided to play _let's mess with the BLU team today_ , given that nothing was left of the sentries around the compound. 

Either way, there was no going back without severe loss of dignity. There was an unspoken agreement that whoever backed out first would be mocked for the rest of his days, and that was a humiliation Demoman was not prepared to face.

Ah, who was he kidding? This was Scout; he'd hear it two-hundred times a day, complete with chicken noises.

He refilled his gun as Scout shuddered on the ground.

"Just---just gimme a second." He took several breaths as he tried to stand, only to fall again.

"If ye don't hurry up, I'll leave ye behind," Demoman said.

"No, no, I'm comin'!" 

Scout pushed himself up and rushed after Demoman. He shoes scraped and slapped against the concrete, as loud as a pair of flip-flop sandals. 

"Aye, sure, sound the alarm. Have all the guns pointed straight at us. See if I care," Demoman said.

"I can't help it, they got weird crap on this cement," Scout protested. He hopped over the last part, until they stood on the edge of the last fence, rotted away by rust and burnt out by explosions from the inside. 

"I think this one's for ye, lad. Break those windows, we need just enough of a commotion to get their attention," Demoman said.

"Remember, it's hard to run with your pants around your ankles, so pull 'em up before we take off," Scout said. He pulled out something from his pocket with a grin.

"One quality stink bomb, comin' up!" Scout launched the stink bomb up and hit it with his bat. In seconds there was an explosion of sound and glass, with noxious smoke spreading through the entire area. Flashing lights began to go off, followed by the unnerving shriek of an alarm come to life.

"I am a _pro_ at breakin' windows, just ask my ma," Scout said.

Before Demoiman could reply, BLU Sniper and Soldier burst up onto the roof. 

"Hey BLU, here's a message with RED, with extra fuck you!" He clutched his pants, ready to pull them back up at a moment's notice.

Demoman turned and lifted up his kilt. The cigar fell straight out of that BLU Soldier's mouth. Demoman smirked. 

No gunfire came. BLU simply stared in stunned silence at the display. 

"Ye better get goin' if ye still want that yae balls still attached to your body," Demoman said. Scout quickly pulled up his pants and started off out of range of the defense mechanisms.

"For RED!" They both screamed out into the night. Scout took a leap, just barely missing a rocket aimed at his head.

"You better run fast, lad! He'll take your ass as a personal slight!"

"He should, my ass is really great!"

Through the hail of bullets, Demoman soared through the air, explosions in his wake. They weren't all his. That BLU Soldier always could leave one hell of a boom. If he wasn't on the edge of death, he'd stay to appreciate that one last scent of smoke in the air.

He ran until he could barely breathe, until his chest ached. Only once they'd reached the dead zone of cacti and Miss Pauling's many graves across the sandy ground that they stopped to take a rest. 

"I think we lost him," Scout said. He leaned over and gasped for breath.

"You know the make up of that bomb, boyo? Those smoke clouds were a work of art," Demoman said.

"Oh my god, you're so drunk you turned into a nerd!"

"Turned?" Demoman laughed. "Oh boyo, ye were too busy listenin' to yaeself talk. Ye never noticed me whisperin' the periodic table to myself, like some of ye count sheep. I could make bombs with my eyes closed, even in my dreams."

Scout shook his head. "It's okay, you're a nerd, but you're still my pal."

Demoman didn't respond. He couldn't said something, blamed it on the alcohol, but he'd taken this road before, and it passed down through hell.

"We best get back before the wee lassie has our hides," he said.

They stumbled off into the night, the long ways towards the base. 

9.  
The television had been nothing but a pleasant static of voices for the past hour or so. He hadn't paid much attention to the words they were saying. Dust and bomb shells lay about him, waiting to be filled. He'd gotten enough for at least one match, but often the Voice scheduled the matches so close together, that he wouldn't have enough time to make more if he ran out. Because of this, Demoman always planned ahead for at least a week's worth of bombs at a time.

Scout sat beside him, with new wounds that he couldn't stop touching. He licked his split lips again and again, like he was using his tongue to feel the sting of a fresh cut.

"I hear ye took one for the team."

"That's what friends do! But, seriously, I didn't just get yelled at by Miss Pauling, I got yelled at by the head lady herself. You know, the Voice? She's pretty hot, actually, though she'd have looked even better with some glasses on a string. You know, those lanyards? I made a pass and she threatened to cut my tongue out and then feed it to me. Though that wasn't the only thing she threatened to cut off. I think she likes me," Scout said.

"Lad, if ye keep thinkin' like that, ye won't live to see thirty. Ye been listenin' to what I say?"

"About what? You say a lot of shit, and like half of it is makin' fun of me. Or is this about that weird fairy crap? Yeah, I started puttin' out milk. I'm pretty popular with the cats. I even attracted a dog. I always wanted one of those as a kid."

"Was it black?" Demoman said. 

"Sure, why?"

"Aye. There's an old tale. The devil comes as a black dog at night," Demoman said.

"Fuck! I'm too handsome to die!" Scout ripped off his hat and earpiece, and ran his fingers through his hair continually as he paced the room. He stopped suddenly, his hands paused in mid air. Scout was the loudest thinker Demoman had ever met.

"Wait, didn't we meet the devil last year? He seemed pretty busy after movin' out of Merasmus'. And he seemed pretty booky."

"Different devil!" 

"There's more of 'em? Crap, I was hopin' it was a nice one who gave out party favors," Scout said.

Scout smoothed his hair back, and reached for his hat. He kept shifting it around in his fingers. "So, like what, I need an exorcism? You think Miss Pauling would do that? I ain't gone to confession in ages. If I go to some priest, I'm goin' to have to either admit I ain't fessed up, or lie to a priest. But if I admit I killed someone to Miss Pauling, she'll be like 'I know, Scout, I saw' and then like give me detention or somethin'."

"Didn't think ye cared about the state of yae soul, boyo. What, are ye like Saint Augustine? Lord make me pure, _but not yet_ ," he recited, smiling at the memory of memorizing books from Merasmus' libraries.

"Well, I been to hell a couple of times, and it ain't so bad since it went under new management. Bombinombicon even opened up a gift shop down there. But if my ma finds out, she'll make me wish I was dead. Nothin' supernatural is even half as scary as she is when she's pissed. And she's got a few rules: don't mess with priests, be nice to kids, and respect the ladies."

"I see ye haven't been followin' her advice very well," Demoman said.

"Hey, I treat women fine. Gettin' to have a piece of me is the best gift any girl could have. Plus, I only hit on _single_ moms, even if the taken ones are super hot too," Scout said.

"Whatever lie makes ye sleep at night, boyo," Demoman said.

"You're just jealous that all the girls want these guns so bad," Scout said.

Demoman smirked. "Sure, lad. Whatever ye say. I'm psychic, ye know. Ye are thinkin' about titties."

Scout let out a laugh. "Well, of course I'm friggin' thinkin' about titties. I'm breathin', ain't I? And besides, you're only half right. I was thinkin' about single moms, but _with glasses_. And tits, but mostly glasses. Maybe they'd wear those hot cardigans, and have their glasses hanging down on their chest, with one of those lanyards, and maybe even some buns. I totally dig the hot mom librarian look. Best type of gal there is."

"Only ye would be be goin' after the most frumpiest mum dress around."

"Hey, I'll have you know those ladies are super experienced and mature. Other guys might toss that aside, but I can appreciate an intelligent and strong lady. Obviously these single moms are just too much women for those guys to handle. Maybe even someone _real_ experienced, one of those super rich ladies who just pays me to have sex with her all day. Talk about livin' the dream!"

"Nessie of the deep, are yae are chasin' after elderly women now? Stay away from my mum," Demoman said.

"Why, is she hot?" Scout said.

"For fuck's sake, I'm not answerin' that question!" 

"Hey, hey, man! I'm jokin'!" Scout patted his shoulder. "I know the bro code. No datin' moms, even if they're super hot. If I did, I'd totally treat her nice, though."

"That's what I'm afraid of! Ye would go and be me stepdad. I sure as hell am not callin' ye 'daddy!'"

"Actually, that'd be kind of cool. We'd be closer than bros, I'd be your brodad. I could take you out to a baseball game," Scout said.

"Yae already did that. I needed a gallon of liquor to get through that game," Demoman said.

"That's less than you usually drink on a good day, so it must've been great!"

"Boyo, you're messed up," Demoman said.

"I'm kiddin', just pullin' your leg! I swear on my ma, I won't hit on your ma, even if she's super hot," Scout said. 

Demoman shook his head. "Honestly, ye want to be a daddy that badly? I thought ye were all about yae freedom and chasin' after anythin' that moved."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not goin' off the market anytime soon, but someday...I mean, Havin' a kid look up to you and who always wants to play baseball sounds kinda fun. If I have enough of them, I could have my own baseball team. And you could be the godfather," Scout said.

"I'm no Catholic. What would I even teach the wee babies? How to make bombs? How to drink? How to kill their first monster?"

"All great things! Besides, I'm not great at this Catholic stuff, other than bein' raised one, but you could teat my kids awesome things. Oh man, I bet you can light the best farts! Did you ever take out BLU with a lit explosive fart? That would be so friggin' great! Then you could go like 'hey BLUsers, guess what won the day: my ass!"

Demoman burst out laughing. "Boyo, ye are somethin' else."

"That I am, and that somethin' is awesome, and the best, and also extremely handsome."

"Naturally. I know how rainbows sparkle straight out of ye arse," Demoman said.

"Hey, at least I know how to use an air freshener and wash my hands when I leave the john―which is more than I can say about the rest of you. I came back in there and there was a friggen _heart_ in the toilet. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Call a plumber?"

"Then ye break into BLU and leave their bathroom even worse than yours to really show them," Demoman said.

"Good idea! Anyways, about this exorcism, you got any pointers?" Scout said.

"Soldier is a priest," Demoman said.

"Thanks for the tip," Scout said.

He rushed off, without a glance back, his hand held up in a last wave. He was always hurrying somewhere else. All flush and fire, he'd rush into any situation. Death, friendship. They might as well have been two sides of the same card. Scout never seemed to worry about the risk, the heartbreak as he went headlong into another disaster. 

 

10.

Demoman wasn't particularly fond of hoedown night, but they had a good special on bacon burgers and two dollar drinks that he could never resist, even if the songs sounded like someone feeding a guitar into a woodchipper. 

"Thank ye," Demoman said. He had to love a bartender who could also put together a decent meal. He almost wished he'd brought along his pirate hat for a fitting hat tip.

The old-west style doors were pushed open, and several people gasped at the sight of a bloodied man staggering inside.

"You should see the other guy," Scout said.

Even as he was limping in, Demoman had to admit he sure as hell had some swagger. As he came closer to the bar, Demoman could see just to the extent of his wounds. There were bruises over his entire face, and even more about his neck. Demoman could see hints of even darker hues and bloodstains even down to his socks.. Even whatever the Voice had done to him was nothing compared to the marks he came back with from Soldier's exorcism.

"Good news! Soldier punched the devil out of me, so I don't gotta worry about no evil dogs. He even punched the communism and he cut my hair for free. I kept tryin' to tell him I was RED, just like him, not a 'commie red hippie' but he didn't listen. Also, that dog thing is hangin' out with Pyro now? I think they became friends."

"Didn't ye go to our good doctor?" Demoman said.

"Couldn't find him, there were weird screams comin' out of his infirmary, so I hoofed it out of there. Besides, I'm fine. Still got all my parts. I'm super single, and ready to---" Scout coughed so hard that blood stained his wraps.

"Actually, maybe I'll just sit down. You gotta mingle twice as hard for me, though," Scout said.

"And here I thought I'd just be eatin' half price bacon tonight," Demoman said.

"Yeah, you thought wrong." Scout coughed up alarming amounts of blood. 

"Think ye broke somethin', boyo," Demoman said.

"Aw, fuck. Stupid cockblockin' broken bones. Also, I think my lung might be punctured? Hate when that happens."

Even at the edge of death, Scout scanned the bar. Demoman had to admire his single minded desire. He'd never met a man who thought with his dick as completely as Scout did.

"Maybe you could flirt with an EMT," Demoman said.

"Good idea. I should save that one for later, but I'm sittin' this one out."

At the end of the bar was a girl he'd seen around town, but never talked to. She was peeling the label of her bottle.

"Oooh, I saw that. You should go talk to her!"

"And with the way ye are goin', everyone else heard it, too. I thought I was yae wingman," Demoman said.

"Wingmanship goes both ways. It's only fair I help you out, with all this amazin' spare charm I got. I got charisma on top of my charisma. Seriously, charisma _up the ass_ , that's how much I got. I could throw it around, like Spy throws his money. Enough charm to harm, pally!"

"If ye say a word enough times, maybe it'll come true," Demoman said.

"Oh, please. You're just jealous of this right here. Unless you're chicken. I mean what, are ye goin' to go and speak nerdy to her? Ooh, look at me, I run around lookin' like a movie star in my fancy skirt and wavin' around swords, and I got all these fancy science words!"

"Are ye _challengin'_ me?" Demoman said.

Scout continued to make chicken noises as he stared Demoman down.

"I see how it is, yae have thrown down the gauntlet. Well, leave it to the master," Demoman said.

A dark-haired woman in glasses, with a thick accent he couldn't quite trace. She looked surprised, not seductive as he took the chair beside her. Demoman leaned in and spoke in an undertone. "I've got to win a bet. If ye play along, I'll split the winnings. Ye don't have to write a real number down."

She raised one eyebrow, but didn't draw back. Just at the corners of her plump ruby-red lips was a hint of a smile. 

"Lass, ye know what ye remind me of? Bismuth, the shinin' element. Ye got deadly eyes, and beauty that could kill a man, like Plutonium. Ye are as clear as amber―that's not an element, just wanted to say that."

He started reciting off numbers and letters from the periodic table in a low, husky voice. She inched closer in the seat, her gaze rapt on him.

Demoman took a subtle peek at Scout, who could only gape. He reached out for her hand, unable to contain his smirk. Clasped in her hand was a paper. On there was a series of numbers, signed with _Call me, we could stay up late grading papers together. Ms. Wells, Teufort High Science teacher._

Demoman held it up.

"You're friggin' kiddin' me. You did not just woo a girl with nerd crap."

"I'm tellin' ye lad, the ladies love science."

"So, I gotta become a giant nerd to get chicks?" Scout said. He shook his head. "Man, all that time i was stuffin' nerds in lockers when I should've been askin' em for datin' tips! Fuck! I failed science, too! And well, everythin' else, but whatever, I'm a _star_ in the school of hard knocks."

"If ye try and stuff me into a locker, I'll cut ye in two," Demoman said.

"Hey, you're my friend! I don't stick friends in lockers, unless I'm helpin' 'em play hide and go seek," Scout said.

Scout was always leaping in too deep, and telling himself everyone liked him, when it was exactly the opposite. But Demoman had to admit someone as willing to jump out with explosions, he had to admire that kind of recklessness. Friendship was forged in foolishness and pain. Demoman had never had a friend he hadn't felt like punching out once in a while, sometimes even when he was sober.

"Lad, I can't even tell when ye are drunk or not."

"Comin' from you, that's a friggin' compliment," Scout said.

Demoman chuckled. "I suppose it is, lad. I suppose it is."

"So," Scout leaned up. Blood trickled down his mouth as he smiled. "When are you goin' out?"

"We're goin' back to her school to go make some paper mache volcanoes. Maybe even grade some papers, or practice the Periodic table," Demoman said dryly.

"Ugh that's---friggin' brilliant. Brilliantly _nerdy,_ that is. Can you save me one for later? I wanna see the fizzy stuff. See, I got banned from the science fair. I wanted to make one of those volcanoes. How was I supposed to know that ammonia and bleach weren't supposed to go together? I just threw all the stuff I had handy in my volcano, it's not like I meant to send those people to the hospital....that time, anyways."

"Bleach and _ammonia_? Ach, you're a walkin' disaster, that's what ye are."

He'd seen this all unfold before. Jane and he had been friends, and something even more. He didn't allow himself to say the word, it hurt too much. He'd shut out all friends, even the ones he didn't end up falling in love with. But he was never known for being careful. Be it leaping into the sky, burst out from the force of his explosions, to taking up swordfighting and hunting Nessie, ghosts, and whoever else would have a bite of his steel.

Demoman held out his his arm and helped Scout up from the seat. "Come on, we'll get your fizzy volcano. But first, you're goin' to get those ribs fixed."

"You sure? What about--"

"Our plans are for later. We'll see if our Doc has gone and hidden the bodies so he can put some ribs back in."

They walked out the door and into the dusty and deserted streets of Teufort. The citizens knew better  
than to go around at night. That was prime body-burying time, and when the mercenaries got off. Only the true reckless ones would risk being out where they might meet death by a drunken hired killer, or a black dog that appeared at a bend in the road.

"I don't think Science works that way," Scout said.

"Which of us has the degrees in Chemistry, and one degree in blowin' stuff up? I know my science," Demoman said.

"Yeah, but I banged this teacher once. I know these things, she yelled the out when I was makin' her real happy!" 

Even Scout couldn't keep the lie up. He broke out laughing midway.

"Ye are a shit liar," Demoman said. But he couldn't help and laugh too.

He helped Scout back out the door, and back towards the base. The twilight looked like so many drunken nights, singing songs together with another person he'd called friend, and many other things. The ghosts of these memories had finally started to fade. Once again, he was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I personally headcanon most of the cast as bi, though I stan that Demoman and Spy are canon bi.


End file.
